


Two Reasons

by MindYourOwnBismuth



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge: June 2018, But it can be fixed with snuggles, Cuddles, Cuddles are the solution, Everything is a mess, Harry is a problem, How Do I Tag, John is a Mess, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of addiction, One-Shot, Rosie is a mess, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is doing his best, cuddle fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 06:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindYourOwnBismuth/pseuds/MindYourOwnBismuth
Summary: It's half eleven and John Watson isn't home.Sherlock is stuck taking care of a hysterical Rosie until the doctor returns.My entry for the June Always1895 fic prompt challenge, cuddling theme.





	Two Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the June Always1985 fic prompt challange.

It’s half eleven and John Watson isn’t home.

Sherlock can’t even worry about his flatmate properly because he’s otherwise occupied putting every ounce of his effort into calming another Watson, who clearly doesn’t take after her father when it comes to dealing with _‘a case of the grumpies,'_  as John so eloquently puts it. When John’s angry, he sets his jaw and clenches his teeth. His brows knit together forming little wrinkles in the skin between them. His hands remain at his sides, fingers clenching and flexing in tandem. Sometimes, he drinks. Or; he looks you dead in the eye, and merely smiles pleasantly. Sherlock’s witnessed it before, and it is, quite frankly, terrifying.

Rosamund Watson, on the other hand, does not do any of those things. No; when Rosamund Watson is at all upset, she _screams._ She screams, and she flails, and she sobs.

It’s half eleven, John isn’t home, and Rosie is a thrashing, red-faced, tear-stained mess in Sherlock’s arms.

The weary detective paces across the sitting room for what he estimates to be roughly the six-hundredth time this evening, attempting to hush the wailing infant. His efforts are in vain. _Insanity,_ he thinks, _is defined as repeating the same thing over and over and expecting different results._ He closes his eyes as he pats Rosie’s back, repeating “it’s okay” in the same soft timbre he’s been using all night. _Insanity. I’m insane. This is insane. John is insane for leaving me here in charge of his daughter._

“Rosie.” The name leaves his mouth in a heavy sigh. “I understand that you are upset. Trust me when I say that I, too, am unhappy with your father for staying out so late. What do you suppose he’s doing?” he asks pleasantly, well aware (and thankful) that the girl, less than two years of age, cannot yet understand the concept of sarcasm. “Hm?” he continues, but to no avail; Rosie simply screams louder. He hadn’t imagined that to be possible. Just like her father, Rosie continues to amaze him; though, typically, John’s surprises are much more… bearable. And not so piercing.

A short distance away, Sherlock’s mobile _pings_ with an incoming text message where it sits on the desk, and the man nearly pounces on it, clutching Rosie to his front with one hand and snatching the phone up with the other hand. His hopeful expression falls into a disdainful scowl at the sight of Lestrade’s name appearing on his home screen. Not even bothering to open the message, he flings his phone angrily at the sofa, where it lands with a soft _‘thud’_ on one cushion after bouncing off the back. Rosie notices his aggravation, and it only makes her kick her feet, her socked toes ramming into his side with a surprising amount of force for a toddler.

 _“DAAADDDYYYYYY!”_ Her wail nearly shakes the foundation of the flat, and is at such a high decibel that Sherlock fears the windows will shatter.

“Yes, yes, I’d like for Daddy to come home, too,” he agrees vehemently with her, as if that will do any good.

It doesn’t.

She sobs, and sobs, and sobs, and sobs, large crocodile tears streaming down her face and breaking Sherlock’s heart. It is with dismay that Sherlock comes to the gut-churning realisation that he is entirely at a loss for what to do. Why is it that, when he finds himself not knowing what to do, a Watson is _always_ involved?

He’s tried doing all of the things that make John happy; he’s played Tchaikovsky _(she apparently doesn’t take to the violin solo from his_ _Valse Scherzo)_ , he’s made tea _(_ _babies don’t drink tea, Sherlock’)_ , he’s had her watch him move a jar of fingers from the crisper onto the bottom shelf _(she didn’t appreciate it as John would have)_ , he’s even put on the deep purple shirt that always has John staring at him when he wears it _(he doesn’t particularly know_ why _John likes it so much, he’s never bothered to ask)_ ; but for all his efforts, he’s ended up with nothing but a headache and snot and tear smears on the front of his shirt. John wouldn’t be happy about that.

Since John’s grouch-suppressants apparently weren’t genetically passed to his offspring, Sherlock tries offering Rosie all of the things that make _him_ happy; he plays Khachaturian _(still not appreciated)_ , he tries to get her to taste a little of John’s precious raspberry jam from his fingertip _(she turns her nose up at it and pushes his hand away)_ , he siphons through glass slides to show her the cuticle, cortex, and medulla of a single strand of John’s hair _(his microscope nearly gets shoved off of the kitchen table in the process)_ , and even goes so far as to dig one of John’s dirty jumpers out of the hamper in their shared bathroom, tries wrapping it around her to envelope her in the man's scent. She rejects _all of it._

Sherlock doesn’t know how she’s been able to keep this up for so long. He’s exhausted just from having listened to her for the past two-and-a-half hours. The last time he’d cried even half as hard as this had been in his flat after his and John’s physical altercation in that morgue when he’d been high out of his mind and beaten to a (quite literally) bloody pulp. And after that, his diaphragm and the muscles in his abdomen had been sore for at least a day afterwards; and it hadn’t been from the beating. How do children withstand their own tantrums?

Rosie takes a brief moment from her guttural wailing to gulp for air, gasping as her tear-filled eyes look at the door to the flat longingly. “Daddyyyy,” she moans miserably, voice catching on a pathetic sob.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock says, cupping a hand to the back of her head to press a kiss atop it, her blonde, wispy curls tickling his nose. Clearly offended by the gesture, Rosie puts her chubby little hands flat against the detective’s chest and pushes, _hard,_ as a scream tears from her throat.

“Oh, Jesus Christ-” Sherlock closes his eyes and hopes that Mrs. Turner’s _‘Married Ones’_ aren’t going to start pounding on the wall that separates their flats in retaliation. His head aches, his arms ache, his sides ache, and he desperately wants a cigarette. “Rosie,” he cooes, “my darling, if you would be so kind as to cease this ridiculous… _paroxysm_ , at least until your father gets home, I would be greatly appreciative. I’ll even give you Jaffa Cakes the next time we have some. How does that sound?”

It doesn’t sound like a suitable trade-off at all, according to Rosie, who weeps loudly in response.

“Alright,” Sherlock reasons, except that there is nothing _reasonable_ about _any of this._

It’s half eleven. John Watson isn’t home. Rosie is utterly unhinged. Sherlock’s resolve is crumbling steadily around him like the weathered stone walls of a deteriorating, ancient castle.

He is completely out of his depth. He is worried about John. He and Rosie both need comforting. And so, entirely on impulse, he does the only thing left that he can think to do.

“L’était une p’tit’ poule grise, qu’allait pondre dans l’église.” His voice is low, soothing, a gentle rumble in his chest as he begins to sing. “Pondait un p’tit’ coco, que l’enfant mangeait tout chaud.”

Miracles are on the long list of things in which Sherlock chooses not to believe; it sits right between the concept of God, and medicines that claim to be _‘cherry-flavoured.’_ But as he witnesses the shift in Rosie’s features, watches the devastated lines in her brow smooth out, and hears the slight quieting of her cries, he seriously considers stopping by the nearest chemist to pick up a bottle of cough medicine and a rosary. He doesn’t even let himself wonder if chemists have religious items in-stock. Instead, he continues singing.

“L’était une p’tit’ poule noir, qu’allait pondre dans l’armoire… Pondait un p’tit’ coco, que l’enfant mangeait tout chaud.” He smiles; it’s working. Rosie’s wails have finally, miraculously subsided, and are replaced with noisy sniffles, and while she continues to gasp for breath, her damp eyes are surveying Sherlock - he can see the curiosity swimming in their deep blue. It’s the same look John often gives him, but in miniature. Sherlock’s smile turns fond. “Français,” he croons, “your father enjoys it when I speak French, too. Of course. French.” He thinks it might not be the French, but the exhaustion finally kicking in - until Rosie apparently notices he’s switched back to English and stopped singing, and she starts whimpering.

“Oh! No, no, no,” Sherlock says, voice panicked, before he returns to the melody of his lullaby. “L’était une p’tit’ poule rousse, qu’allait pondre dans la mousse…”

The melody never stops. He remembers the words from when his grand-mére sang him to sleep when he was Rosie’s age, but she always mixed up the order of the stanzas. Noir _(black)_ , blanche _(white)_ , rousse _(red)_ , gris _(grey)_ , jaune _(yellow)_ … but brune, brown, was always last.

“L’était une p’tit’ poule brune, qu’allait pondre dans la lune,” he sings softly, swaying back and forth in time where he stands, Rosie now completely calm in his arms despite the occasional sniffle as her breath struggles to even out. “Pondait une p’tit’ coco, que l’enfant mangeait tout chaud.” The room falls silent with the end of the song, and Rosie’s tired eyes squint after a long moment, making a pitiful noise when she reaslises that Sherlock isn’t going to continue.

And so, he takes a breath, and starts again.

Two repeats of the song later finds an exhausted Rosamund Watson collapsed against the chest of an equally-exhausted Sherlock Holmes. The man stands in the centre of the sitting room hardly daring to move, but he does dare to let his voice fade to nothing to see how Rosie will react. He lets out a relieved breath when he hears her soft, even breathing. She is asleep, her head resting against the front of his shoulder, her hair tickling the underside of his jaw.

The problem of Rosie’s upset has been solved, but a whole new problem has arisin; John is _still_ not home, and Rosie needs to be put down. But her cot is upstairs in John’s room. Sherlock’s room is downstairs. And he knows John would wring his neck if he found out Sherlock left her unsupervised, and their baby monitors have long-since died, and Sherlock knows they don’t have any spare batteries in the flat and _why don’t they have any bloody batteries-_

Rosie lets out a tremulous breath that puffs softly against his neck, and he holds her close as he purses his lips in thought.

He’s been in John’s room before, he thinks to himself. Not always with John’s permission. But this is a special case, isn’t it? He looks down at Rosie and thinks that, yes, it is acceptable for him to put Rosie to bed and wait in John’s room until the man returns home.

Mind made up, Sherlock carefully walks across the floor in his stockinged feet to retrieve his mobile from the sofa before ascending the stairs as gracefully as possible so as to not jostle the sleeping toddler in his arms, and he shoulders open the door at the top of the landing, not even turning the light on as he carefully creeps inside the room. It feels like he’s invading John’s privacy; which is strange, because he’s never felt that way before whilst rummaging through his flatmate’s things. But he pushes the thought aside as he approaches the cot, and he reaches into it with one hand to pull back the miniature blankets before gingerly, carefully lying Rosie down on the small mattress. Her eyes open slightly, and for a brief moment Sherlock panics, getting ready to start singing again - but the moment passes as her eyes fall closed again and her small lips part with her gentle breaths. Sherlock lets out a soft breath of his own as he reaches down to cover Rosie with the blankets, making sure she’s tucked in, before he turns towards the rest of the room.

He knows he should stay to be sure Rosie stays asleep, but there aren’t any chairs. The bed is the only option. He forces himself to think that John won’t mind as he meanders over to sit delicately on the bed. The mattress springs creak quietly under his weight. John shouldn’t have to sleep on something with such little support, he thinks to himself as he smoothes one hand over the low thread-count duvet. He sighs softly as he fishes his mobile out of his pocket, unlocking it and scrolling through the thirty-six messages he’s sent John over the course of the last two hours; the doctor was supposed to be home by nine-thirty. Groaning quietly, Sherlock puts the phone on the nightstand and hangs his head, rubs his hands over his face, wipes at his tired eyes. Rosie stirs in her cot, and Sherlock’s heart sinks, fearing the worst; but when he looks up, he realises she’s merely shifted, her little hands now clutching the bumblebee plush he’d bought for her shortly after she was born. A weary, fond smile crosses his face. He sighs softly; _might as well make myself comfortable,_ he thinks, anticipating a long night ahead of him, at least until John returns. He tries to push his worry out of his mind as he kicks off his shoes and shifts on the bed to sit with his upper back against the headboard, his legs stretched out on the mattress in front of him. Closing his eyes, he tips his head back, and folds his hands together over his stomach, intending to keep a diligent watch over John’s daughter until the man returns home.

It doesn’t exactly go according to plan.

\--

Sherlock hasn’t the faintest idea of _when_ he fell asleep.

All he knows is that he is roused from his slumber by the feeling of the mattress dipping beside him.

His eyelids flutter open, eyes squinting to adjust to the darkness of the room to find that he is lying on his side, curled up atop the duvet. And a _very tardy_ John Watson, in a teeshirt and boxers, is carefully crawling into the bed beside him.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” It’s the first thing Sherlock can think to say, and it leaves his mouth in a raspy whisper, voice rendered gravelly with fatigue.

John huffs a weary laugh. “I’m sorry,” he whispers back as he lies down to face Sherlock, and the brunette’s expression softens at the realisation that John truly is sorry; the bags under his eyes tell of sorrow and trauma, his eyes lacking their normal luster. He is unharmed… at least, physically.

Sherlock’s brows knit together as his eyes search John’s. “What happened?”

John purses his lips, averts his eyes. He sighs. “Harry,” he murmurs, and Sherlock thinks he doesn’t need to hear any more. John continues anyway. “She…” he huffs, frowning. “She called me at work. Absolutely out of her mind. Shit-faced.” His eyes close tightly, his expression pained. “She… she’d been driving.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in dawning horror, but he remains silent.

“Didn’t hurt anyone,” John assures as he opens his eyes and takes in Sherlock’s shock. “But she did crash. She’s fine,” he sighs. “A little banged up. But she’s fine. The idiot called _me_ instead of a fucking ambulance. And she told me if I called an ambulance she’d run away from the car.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at Sherlock. “The two of you would get along brilliantly.”

Sherlock offers a sad smile. “I can sympathise with her. You’re the only doctor I trust.” The words come easily. Sherlock’s too tired to worry about the sentiment that oozes from them.

John gives a small smile. “Well, you both make my life hell,” he says lightheartedly.

“Where did she crash?”

“Just some highway, a little ways out of the city,” John supplies. “It wasn’t busy. No one noticed.”

Sherlock hums. John continues.

“So I got a cab and went to get her. I paid the driver double the fare because I made him sit on the side of the highway for nearly half an hour while I got her out of her car and argued with her. Eventually she agreed…” he bites his lip momentarily before meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “... to go to rehab.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen again. “Really?”

John’s small smile reaches his eyes. “Yeah.”

“That’s… great,” Sherlock breathes. “That’s great. I’m glad. And I hope it helps her. More for your sake, than hers.”

John’s chuckle is quiet, and tired. “Yeah. Me too.” He hums softly. “Wish you would have been there, though. You probably would have gotten through to her better. I was too emotional about it.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hums. “Addict-to-addict.”

John’s eyes narrow. “ _Recovering addict_ -to-addict,” he corrects, and Sherlock smiles.

“Yes. So you took her to a rehabilitation centre, and that’s what took you so long,” he assumes.

John nods, eyes widening. “Oh my _God._ There is _so_ much paperwork,” he whines. “And my phone was dead, so I couldn’t even call you and let you know what was going on. I’m sorry about that,” he says sincerely. “I didn’t mean to leave you with Rosie for so long.”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock whispers.

“She didn’t give you much trouble?”

“Oh, she did.” Sherlock smiles. “She takes after you. Except nothing that placates you works with her when she’s angry. Except French.”

One of John’s eyebrows lifts, the man clearly, thoroughly amused. “You spoke French to her?”

“Sang, actually.”

The blond giggles, and the sound soothes Sherlock’s very soul. “Damn. Wish I would have been here to see that.”

“Rosie wishes you’d been here, too,” Sherlock murmurs. “And so do I. We missed you.” His words are soft and sincere; and so is John’s responding smile.

“I missed you, too.”

The men fall into companionable silence for a long couple of moments before Sherlock lets out a breath. “I suppose I should-”

“-Stay.”

He blinks as John cuts him off, and is held in place by the shorter man’s cerulian stare. “Oh.” _Why?_ “Why?”

John’s cheeks visibly flush in the darkness, and he averts his eyes. “Dunno,” he says _(lies)._ “Just… it’s comforting.”

Sherlock never really considered himself all that skilled in the art of comforting; and his evening failing to calm Rosie supported his claim. But if John needed comforting, then damn it all, he would try to provide as much comfort as he could. He takes a breath, and moves.

He shifts closer across the mattress, ignoring John’s curious glance as his arm lifts to drape over John’s waist. He tries to emulate the hug he’d given John in the sitting room shortly after Mary’s death, splaying his hand on the man’s back and tucking the man’s head under his own chin. He thinks he’s doing a good job; but John is stiff.

“What are you doing?” the blond asks, the question drawn out with confusion and surprise, and a little amusement. Sherlock frowns.

“Attempting to comfort you.”

And then John giggles. He shakes in Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock can feel the puffs of his breath against his neck. Sherlock blushes fiercely and makes to pull away.

“No!” John says, quickly wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him close. “No, no- I’m sorry. It’s lovely. Just… funny.” His chuckles are soft now.

“Your sister crashed her car,” Sherlock deadpans, “is now in rehab, and you’re cuddling with your flatmate and thinking it’s all funny.”

“Shut up,” John chastises, and Sherlock smirks. “Nothing makes sense right now. Just go with it.”

Sherlock hums, and it turns into a pleased sigh when John relaxes in his arms, nestling his head more solidly under Sherlock’s chin, his nose pressed to Sherlock’s sternum. He feels John’s eyelashes flutter against the base of his neck.

“Is this… snot?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your daughter was a mess earlier.”

“This is my favourite shirt,” John murmurs sadly, hand sliding up Sherlock’s side to brush his fingers over the dried stains on his chest.

A knowing grin crosses Sherlock’s face. “Nothing a little drycleaning can’t fix,” he reassures. “This shirt has been through far worse.”

John snorts his amusement, his fingers abandoning the dried stains and now just tracing idle patterns over the silky shirt that has Sherlock’s skin tingling beneath.

“Why do you like this shirt so much?” he asks suddenly, and John’s fingers still. He can feel John’s body heating in embarrassment.

“Uh.” John pauses. “Dunno.” _Another lie. Come on, John._ “Just… looks nice on you, I guess.” The man gives a stunted half-shrug. “Though it’s _absurdly_ tight.”

“That doesn’t sound like a complaint,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

“Shut up.” The command holds no heat, and it sounds like John is smiling. The man’s fingers resume their idle tracing of random patterns over Sherlock’s shirt. “I’m glad that you’re clean. I’m proud of you.”

Sherlock reels slightly at the topic-change. “Well,” he sighs, “I have a reason to be.” His arm tightens minutely around John. “Two reasons, actually,” he muses with a small smile, closing his eyes as his ears pick up Rosie’s soft breathing nearby.

“I’m honoured to be one of those reasons,” John whispers, barely audible. He sighs against Sherlock’s chest, his hand smoothing back down to wrap tightly around Sherlock’s middle. “Thank you.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what John is thanking him for. So he just breathes a soft “thank _you”_ in response.

They fall silent. John’s breath evens out, and Sherlock is almost certain the man is asleep - except that, all of a sudden, the man’s legs shift to tangle with his own, and Sherlock swears he can feel the barest brush of a kiss against the bare skin of his neck. He smiles; he doesn’t really know what any of this means. Their arms are wrapped around each other, their legs a hopeless tangle between them, and John has just kissed him…

He tilts his head to place a responding kiss to the top of John’s head, smiling against the soft, greying blond of his hair.

He doesn’t really know what any of this means. But he’s brimming with happiness. And he decides, as he relaxes fully into the mattress and into John’s warm embrace, that he’s okay with not knowing tonight. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks, they’ll talk. They’ll wake up in each other’s arms, and John will insist they talk about it, because that’s just something that John would do. Where they go from there has yet to be known.

But tonight, Sherlock decides, he will enjoy the feeling of being wrapped in John’s warmth, enjoy the flutter of John’s lashes against his skin, enjoy the steady rise and fall of John’s chest against his ribs… _Tonight,_ Sherlock thinks, _I’ll just enjoy this._

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> The lullaby Sherlock sings is one of my favourites from when I was younger; here's a link to a video of one version of it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-R5c6_8S_I  
> The lyrics are roughly: "There was a little grey hen, that went to lay in the church, laying a little egg, which the child would eat warm." And so on and so forth.


End file.
